


The King's Toy

by Keystoffees



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, The Hollow Crown - Fandom
Genre: Angry Sex, Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, Dominant RIII, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, I know very little Shakespeare but I bloody love RIII, I use the C-word quite a bit, Light Bondage, Loss of Virginity, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, RIII, Richard III of England - Freeform, Richard is angry, The Hollow Crown, The Hollow Crown: Henry VI, The Hollow Crown: Richard III, The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses, Unnamed Courtier, after Henry VI parts II and III, calling Richard by his proper title, literally no story, set after Episode 2, small amount of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6863839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keystoffees/pseuds/Keystoffees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have been chosen to be the Duke of Gloucester’s companion tonight. You have heard terrible stories of what has happened inside his bedchamber… Weapons, substances of dubious origin, and even disturbing tales involving animals and bed sheets that have had to be burnt in the aftermath. But how much of this is courtly gossip borne out of fear, and how much is rooted in the truth about this charismatic megalomaniac?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Toy

I lift a hand to the bodice of my gown and can feel my heart pounding underneath the layers of thick fabric and boning. The knot of nervous energy in my stomach ties and unties itself as I climb the stone steps and walk down the narrow corridor. I pass a dark doorway, closed off to the rest of the palace as if what lay behind it simply did not exist, another and another. I can see my destination growing nearer as I do my best to remain composed.

I am approaching the private chambers of Richard, Duke of Gloucester. A man for whom the usual niceties of courting and bedding a woman are out of reach, whether removed by his own lack of will or by the fear and mocking of others. Nevertheless, he has a fearsome reputation in some parts; known for a sense a enjoyment as twisted as the spine with which he lumbers around this great city. Known by some, including my aunt, I lament, as I smooth down the cloth of my skirts and stand facing the arched wooden door. It was she who ordered me here tonight, ignoring my protestations, telling me this was my courtly duty and that it was time I found out how useful I could really be to my family. 

A guard stands to the left of the doorway, which is illuminated on either side, and I notice the unusual way in which the flames flicker. They seem to be almost snuffed out entirely by a breeze that is imperceptible to my skin, before springing back into life once again. I feel no cool air. Yet a sudden, sinister shiver runs down my back and spreads its chill around the base of my spine. I raise my hand and shakily knock three times on the heavy wood of the door with my pale knuckles. 

I hear uneven footsteps behind the door; a heavy thud followed by a small scrape. I have seen Gloucester from a distance at court and I know he looks and walks differently from other men. I feel an overwhelming fear as the door opens slowly and I raise my eyes to the face of the man who will control my next few hours. 

He stares for a few seconds, his eyes hard, piercing in their murky greyness, the flames reflected in them for a moment as he glances fleetingly, suspiciously, at the guard, who makes no reaction at all. I realise then that whatever occurs in the confines of Richard’s chambers will not be interrupted; what noises or other indications of the activities within will be ignored. This man has steeled himself against those who said he was deformed, misshapen. He does as he pleases quietly and no-one, not least a single guard charged with protecting his life as the King of England’s brother, is permitted to stop him. 

I am disposable. A toy. 

His eyes from behind the door fall to the floor, but not before they sweep over the outline of my body, and I see his mouth quirk up at one corner in an approximation of something representing appreciation. He swings open the door wide, and beckons to me to enter.

I take small steps into the room and he closes the heavy door behind me. 

He turns to face me and I find it difficult to make eye contact so I look down at my feet; my silk slippers are just visible beneath the hem of my dress. 

“Look at me.” 

I feel his voice before I hear it. It rumbles across the few feet separating us like a cartwheel across cobbles. It spreads across my stomach and up into my mind as if it was a physical entity instead of a sound. An aftershock of pure fear swells deep into my bones in response. I find myself unable to move, unable to obey the man before me. 

“I said LOOK AT ME!” 

This time I am sufficiently startled by him that I gasp and my eyes snap to his face. 

“Sir,” I say and as I reply I notice that my voice sounds weak and it surprises me. Ordinarily I am far from easily intimidated. 

He must be able to see the fear etched all over my face, because he stares at me for a few seconds, his own expression passing through obvious annoyance, concern, and then something else, which my naivety in these matters prevents me from fully understanding. He strides over to me, uneven but purposeful, and suddenly he is there, bearing down on me and holding my chin in one of his large hands. 

“Are you scared?” Richard whispers, leaning right into my ear, so close I feel his breath rush past the loose hairs that sit atop my shoulder. “Are you scared of me? You should be. Do you know what I have overcome in my life until now? Do you know what people call me? I AM RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER!” He shouts into my ear and I recoil again. Tears prick my eyes but I force them away again. I can see him watching me still. 

I curtsey. I use the time to think; the slow movement of my legs, bobbing down to show my respect, but I will not be beaten, even if this man is in line to the throne of England. 

“No, Sire.” I find my voice. It is small and weak, but it exists.

Richard grasps my jaw tightly in his hand, and it begins to hurt. He buries his face into my neck and inhales sharply, groaning as he does, and I notice how unbalanced his whole torso is, the whole left side of his body rising up at his shoulder bone.

My thoughts are interrupted by Richard’s other hand, which he has been lifting slowly towards the bodice of my gown. It rests just an inch below the top, grazing my armpit, where my skin is beginning to dampen with perspiration. Out of resignation and nerves I close my eyes, waiting for his next move. He releases his tight grip on my chin and I tilt my head back with the freedom, just as he grabs the back of my head with his free hand and puts pressure on my chest, forcing me backwards until the back of my head, and then my back and bottom, connect with the wood panelled wall. 

I have been in this man’s bedchamber for mere moments, yet I am already at his mercy, held tight between strong hands and a body that moves slowly but will not be challenged. 

“Why do you not fear me? Have you not heard tell of what I am capable?” It is half-whisper, half-growl. 

“Y-yes, I have heard court tales and idle gossip. I feel certain that these are not whole truths but are the work of others to discredit your good character as the King’s brother.” 

“They are not. Foolish child.” He stands square in front of me and hooks his fingers over the top of the neckline of my gown’s bodice, still holding the back of my neck with his left hand. “I am ALL. THOSE. THINGS. And more.” The last two words are growled so low I feel them vibrating over my ribcage, but quickly forget when he jerks his hand down, taking the fabric and boning of my dress down a few inches. The seams at my underarm give way and the pale linen of my undergown is visible over my breasts. 

The Duke of Gloucester stands and looks down at me and I meet his gaze. I notice that his eyes are not grey, as I once believed, but rather a pale green, with flecks of gold. I have never before made eye contact with this man - my place at court not permitting me more than to dance around the periphery of useful political unions - but now that I have, I'm transfixed by him. 

The rest of the world, outside of this chamber, fades into the distance recesses of my mind. This man has such power in his eyes. I neither want to be here, or to be anywhere else at this moment. 

My dress is pulled even further down, and, his attention shifting from my face to my chest, the Duke is no longer holding me captive here. Two large hands push away the remaining fabric covering my breasts and cup each one gently. The look on his face is of deep concentration, his brows furrowed slightly, causing a deep wrinkle in the centre above his nose. His curly hair falls crinkled over his eyes, damp with the sweat of a man held captive by the frustrations of his disability.

I find myself breathing heavily, my chest rises and falls quickly while Richard rolls my exposed nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. It makes me feel lightheaded and I cannot deny that there is now a physiological reaction happening, a dull ache between my legs which is intensifying with every move of his fingers. I have felt this before, at night, in my bed, while I listen to the rhythmic sounds of Lady Anne sleeping, and I squeeze my thighs together desperately. Eventually, it goes away. But now, with Gloucester’s hands at work, it's almost painful. 

“Get down on the floor for your King,” he snarls, releasing my breasts at once and stepping back to watch me.

I drop to my knees, feeling as I move, the dampness that is gathering between my legs. 

I look up at Richard and try to hide my confusion. Has he misspoken or was it intentional? I cannot tell which. 

“How old are you, child?” His voice is at once softer, although I would not say caring. 

“Nineteen,” I tell him. 

Before I can say any more he roars at me again: “YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS YOUR KING!”

“Your... Majesty,” I sob desperately, tears once again threatening to spill down my cheeks. 

He grunts in approval and lifts his smock shirt, finding the leather lacing of his breeches and tugging the fabric apart aggressively. I have never seen a man naked and I never dreamed that when I did, it would be this enraged, complex, handsome man. The longer I watch him the more intense the ache in my cunt becomes. I wonder how I can be caught so well between crippling fear and desperation for his hands to touch me again. 

He pulls his cock out from inside his undergarments and I can't help but stare. He moves his hand along it, sliding across the smooth skin. He grunts again, so I think it must feel as good as the throbbing inside me does. It's growing thicker while I watch and instinctively I crawl towards him, the coolness of the stone floor barely registering on my hot hands. Somehow,  
I know what to do next. 

In a wave of boldness, I lean up on my knees and mirror the respect which Richard has just afforded my dress; pulling down his breeches to his thighs and curling a hand around his leaking cock. It's warm, smooth and so solid underneath my palm, and I am beginning to understand why the ladies at court seem so obsessed with this particular part of a man's anatomy. It is… Beautiful. 

But I am not allowed to linger for long. Richard wraps his fingers around the lengths of brown hair that lie against my back. He winds the hair around his hand and fists his fingers, pulling my head back in the process. It hurts. I stare up at him, silently pleading with him to be gentle.

My hands are now holding onto his thighs for stability, as he holds my head back, held tightly by his hand in my hair. He angles his hips forward and lets his cock rest on my lips. I part them in response and I taste salt and catch the scent of leather and soap. The swelling in my cunt forces more fluid to rush out from between my legs. 

“Your... scent… is enticing, child. Very good,” he whispers after inhaling the air. 

He continues to slide his palm over the topside of his dick, rubbing it against my open mouth for friction, small snorts of arousal escaping his plump lips. 

Just as I am about to attempt to take his cock into my mouth, he lets go of my hair. He bends, lifting me under my arms and facing me, so close our noses touch. He sits me roughly on the edge of the huge four poster bed that dominates this chamber, and for the first time, our lips meet. I kiss him eagerly back, happy to taste the wetness inside his mouth and to let him push me back so that I am lying half on the bed, my legs bent over the side. 

I start to relax into Richard’s the surprisingly gentle kiss, when I pull away quickly to scream - loud, sharp - as a searing pain rips through my body and fades again as fast as it appeared, leaving only the throbbing in my cunt in its wake. He lets out a moan and I realise his hand is there, between my legs, touching that part of me that has never been touched before. His fingers are inside me and he is moving them quickly, in and out, back and forth. The pain he is inflicting inside me is lessened each time he jerks them into me, and I pant from the exertion and the confusion of feelings. The sounds I can hear are unlike anything I have ever heard before. I open my legs wider.

Without another word, Richard moves to place his head between my legs, burying his face into the soft hair that lies there. I stare straight up at the ceiling and cannot help but let out a moan.

His tongue is flat against my clitoris and he nips, twisting his head to the side and back. His fingers are still inside me but have stopped moving while I get used to the feeling of his mouth around me there. The pain and pleasure combine and it feels like my whole body is on fire with sensation. It builds steadily and I wonder how much more I can take, his low growls every now and then vibrate against my pussy and he curls his fingers inside me before…

He stops.

The weight of his body over me lifts and I feel cool air around my swollen, dripping cunt. 

I lift my head to see what he is doing and his hand comes from nowhere to connect with the left side of my face. I cry out in shock and pain again and my head falls back against the hard mattress.

“I will be your King! You will not find pleasure unless I allow it!” He spits at me.

I try to control my breathing while my head spins and I close my eyes to regain my composure, but it is no good; he lifts me again, throwing me towards the head of this grand bed, where I land on several bolster pillows. 

Richard removes his breeches entirely and climbs onto the bed to kneel between my legs, which he pulls apart. There is a smear of red across his mouth and chin, which are glistening in the candle light. I come to the understanding that this must be my own blood; I had heard other ladies talk of the damage the first time could cause but hadn't believed I would ever see blood.

Reaching over me, he begins to tie my wrists together, attaching them securely but loosely to the wooden intricacies carved in the head of the magnificent bed. I want him to touch me again; this cruel, angry man. I don't have to wait long. 

Pulling on his cock a few times, he grunts and snorts and his own chest begins to move fast as his arousal grows again. His dick is pink and hard and he looks pleased with himself. He stares at me, tied to his bed, legs held apart by his body, kneeling as he is between my thighs, and he runs a single finger down from my navel through my soft hair and over my clit. The contact there sends a shiver through me and I open my mouth to speak.

But before I can utter any words; of encouragement, of enticement or of refusal, he slams his cock deep into me. Extending his legs out behind him and grabbing one of my thighs to bend up around my waist, he sinks into me without warning and with a loud roar, his breath hitting my face. He moves his hips back to withdraw from me almost entirely, and he leans down to tongue at my left nipple lazily. I can feel the prickle of the stubble on his face and the tickle of his hair as he rests his head on my chest, hips suspended above me, teasing at my entrance.

“Please, Sire,” I manage to say, but this only enrages him again.

“You will call me by my rightful title!” He roars, rearing up above me and looking down at me with such contortion on his face it obscures his unusually handsome features. 

Letting go of my leg, he reaches down and rubs my clit, rolling in circles around it, smearing the fluid there with the small amount of blood that remains. I feel the beginning of my climax building again, and I try to hold onto it, desperate to feel some release from the torment of this man. Before I can hold onto the feeling for long enough, Richard stops again. 

“Your… m-Majesty,” I manage to stutter, and to my enormous relief I see that this has pleased him. He moves quickly down to between my legs, and sucks my clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it gently and rhythmically. It takes mere seconds before I am screaming incoherent noises, pulling my arms against their restraints and writhing underneath my King. My orgasm feels like an awakening; a transition from child to woman, and the way in which it has been administered has set me on course for a lifetime of seeking out true trust and submission. 

He licks once, twice, devouring as much of me as he can before kneeling up, wrapping his hands around my hips and turning me over, twisting the rough twine he has used to tie me so that my hands are bound tighter and the rope carves shallow channels into my wrists that I will see the evidence of for days. 

Richard pulls my hips up so that I'm on my knees, my face buried into the pillows, and sheathes his cock deep into me from behind, letting out another angry roar that fills the entire room. He fucks me hard like that for I don't know how long, grunting and hissing as he loses himself in his own immense pleasure. I turn my head in the pillows, craning to look at him. Although it is contorted with the desperate remaining thrusts before he comes, his face looks like a lost boy who is about to be found. A small part of me wants to find him again someday, over and over. 

“Say it again. While I am in your cunt,” Richard hisses.

He needs me to say it, I think. He needs to hear what greatness he will become before he can truly find himself and his pleasure. It is all I can do; I say it again. 

“YOUR MAJESTY, KING RICHARD!” I shout as loudly as I can.

“ARGH!” Richard roars, thrusting into me one final time before jerking his hips back and pulling out of me. His hands scrape at the layers of undergarments that are piled over my back, exposing as much of my skin as possible and coming right onto me. His come shoots hot and fast, landing on my back and buttocks while he whines with the relief, hips still rocking back and forth in mimicry of fucking. 

Finally, once his breath has returned and he has untied and helped me pull down the skirts of my half shredded gown, he crawls up the bed to lie next to me. I stare at the ceiling and wonder whether to worry about how sore I am already starting to feel, or whether I would actually welcome a repeat of the delicious pain this would-be king has wrought in me. 

Later I will find out that some of the stories heard around court are true. But I won't give it a second thought, because he has spoiled me for those kind, gentle souls who woo with flowers and games where they let their beloved win. I know I will be back, again and again, to see just how far King Richard III of England can go. And how far he can push me.


End file.
